Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Leaning closer, I inhale her scent. She smells like summer—like flowers and sunshine. It suits her. It goes with the warm hue of her hair and the candied taste of her lips.
She bends backward, escaping my proximity.
I don’t let her get away. I step right into her space, catching her around the waist. We’re poised like dancers, and I already look forward to doing this tango with her.
“Which floor, tesoro?”
Her slender throat moves gracefully as she swallows. “Why?”
Fuck, this woman will make the simple act of drinking appear sensual.
A siren sounds in the distance.
I pull her upright, testing her balance before setting her free. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Mistrust and panic spark in her eyes, but she doesn’t falter in holding my gaze.
Clever, brave girl. Still, she should learn to obey.
I make my voice hard. “Now, Anya.”
She jumps. “Second floor.”
Taking her elbow, I guide her down the short hallway and up the staircase. The closer we get to the top, the harder she strains in my hold.
I stop. “Anya.”
At my tone, she stills.
Pulling my jacket open, I show her the knife. “Must I pay Livy a visit?”
She pales further. This time, she doesn’t resist when I lead her onto a landing with two doors. I’m done asking. I don’t believe in wasting my breath. Instead, I wait.
She points at the door on the left.
I push her ahead of me and place her in the corner so that my body cuts off her exit while I go through her bag for her key. Going through a woman’s handbag is like peering into her soul. A bitter memory of French perfume and foil packets of condoms beneath crumpled wads of cash pierces my mind. Yes, I was the asshole who did that, the man who invaded Rachele’s privacy by going through her handbag and her phone.
As soon as the thought forms, I wipe it away. This is Anya’s bag, and there are no rubbers and drugs and more money than most people earn in a year carelessly scrunched up between high-end label lipstick and mascara. There’s only a small purse, lip balm, a foldable toothbrush and toothpaste, and a packet of strawberry flavored gum.
More sirens blare outside. The walls aren’t as thick as Livy claimed.
After pulling out a keychain with a plastic sunflower ornament, I lift my face to hers. “Alarm?”
She shakes her head, trembling like a little mouse that’s trapped by a cat in her corner.
I already know from what Livy said that Anya isn’t living with anyone in a romantic sense. More than suiting me, the fact pleases me. She may have a roommate or family though.
“Do you live with someone?” I ask.
She shakes her head again.
Good.
I unlock the door and push her inside before locking it behind me. Holding onto her arm, I flick on the light. A small entrance opens into a spacious living area with a kitchen on the left and a lounge on the right. The minute I let her go, she escapes to the far side of the room where she hovers without taking her eyes off me while I inspect the space.
Like the lobby, the apartment is a showcase of good taste and expensive fittings. Whatever she does for a living, she must earn a pretty penny. These apartments don’t come cheap, especially not in this area. I’m tempted to linger in my evaluation, but I have to content myself with taking everything in with a quick glance—the hardwood floors, the south facing windows with the river view, and the stainless-steel appliances in the kitchen.
Leaving her bag on the bar counter that divides the kitchen and the lounge, I ask, “Where were you tonight?”
“Why?” she asks, her one-word question breathless.
“What were you doing before you saw what happened downstairs?”
She wraps her arms around herself. “I was working.”
I raise a brow. “That late?”
“I needed to finish something,” she says with hint of animosity. “What’s this? An interrogation? I don’t have to explain myself or where I’ve been to you.”
Her anger is endearing. She’s got spirit. I let the rebellious remark slide. “Where do you work?”
“Mr. Lewis was my boss,” she spits out.
I still. “You work at Lewis’s firm?”
At the reminder of him, some of her bravado slips. “Yes.”
“Doing what?”
“Junior accountant.”
“That’s unfortunate,” I say, meaning it. If she’d worked anywhere else, she wouldn’t have walked in on something she was never supposed to see. “He obviously paid well.” I motion at the room. “Junior accountants don’t usually earn enough to afford a place like this.”
“Why did you kill him?” she asks in a tremulous voice.
I don’t have to share any facts with her, but for what I’m about to put her through, she deserves the truth. “He stole from us.”
“From you?”
“From the family.”
Her eyebrows knit together, and then her brow smooths out as unpleasant surprise transforms her features. “You’re mafia.”